


One to Five

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Author's Favorite, BDSM, BDSM - 24/7, BDSM - Lifestyle, Chastity Device, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Polyamorous Character, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell is this?” Porthos asks, very quietly, even though he already knows the answer.</p><p>“It’s a chastity device,” Aramis answers, still fidgeting. “I – thought you could keep the key.”</p><p>Kink Bingo fill: mechanical/technological.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One to Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mackem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/gifts).



> Fill for [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1873085) kink meme prompt.
> 
> They don't appear to have had male chastity devices in the 1600s, so this totally counts as 'technological'. (That's what I'm telling myself, anyway.)
> 
> Please note that I have **chosen not to warn** for all the individual kinks covered in this fic, as it's turned into quite a wide-ranging piece (though the focus remains on chastity play). If there are kinks you find triggering or prefer not to read in fic, please proceed with caution.
> 
> This fic deals with [24/7 BDSM (or "Lifestyle BDSM")](http://www.submissiveguide.com/2011/07/what-is-a-247-ds-ms-relationship/), and as such, is sometimes very emotionally heavy for the characters involved. There is also one instance of less-than-great negotiation, though the characters do have safewords and know how to use them.

When Aramis tells Porthos that he slept with Anne Bourbon, Porthos finds he’s not really that surprised.

Athos is spitting feathers, Aramis tells him, because _of_ _course_ he is; and Porthos will later discover that d’Artagnan seems to have got permanently stuck somewhere around the fact that Aramis and Porthos are together, but Aramis is polyamorous and occasionally sleeps with other people, and Porthos isn’t and doesn’t, but doesn’t mind that Aramis does.

Well. _Normally_ doesn’t mind.

At first, things progress much as they normally do when Aramis has fucked up, even though this time it’s with a much greater threat to all their livelihoods: Aramis is quieter than usual, the stubborn jut to his chin unmistakeable; and when Porthos asks him if he’s sorry, he hesitates for a moment before saying, “Do you know, I’m almost sorry that I can’t be.”

For Aramis to be sorry would be to deny love itself, Porthos thinks, and its power to conquer all. Including marriage vows, client/employee fraternisation policies, professional reputations and the reputations of your colleagues and friends, apparently.

Porthos feels a little bit like laughing and a little bit like crying, and a lot like hitting something; and so when Aramis kneels down by his chair and asks him to use the paddle on him, with that same _lack of fucking sense_ that seems as much a part of him as his cologne, Porthos says he’s going home instead; and goes out into the street and walks and walks and walks, until the rain’s running cold down the back of his neck in rivulets and he’s numb enough to go back to his own flat and attempt some sleep, turning off his personal mobile and trying and failing not to think.

Aramis’ sheer, pig-headed _refusal_ to consider the consequences of anything he does is the one thing that Porthos still can’t get his head around even after all these years, even though he knows logically that Aramis just doesn’t _see_ it – the same way Porthos himself doesn’t see the mess in a room that will send Athos into a near-tailspin; the same way Athos will never look at a woman and want to fuck her; the same way Porthos has never seen anything erotic, even desirable in the kind of danger and uncertainty that Aramis seems to crave.

He knows that Aramis lives from moment to moment and day to day, but this –

Even he should have known better than to sleep with a _client_ , and Porthos finds he is disappointed.

He has never known Aramis accept enough responsibility for his own actions to consider regretting them, and this time will surely be no different. Porthos knows the drill by now: Aramis will leave him alone for approximately three days before cornering him after a shift and making one of those not-quite-apologies he’s a near-master of; and once Porthos has conceded that Aramis is Aramis and he can’t stay mad at him forever, Aramis will invite him back to his flat, where Porthos will remove the plug that’s already in Aramis’ arse and replace it with his own cock, unable to help but think that the sight of Aramis spread out and writhing beneath him, sheened in sweat, hands grasping uselessly at thin air just below where Porthos is gripping his wrists hard enough to bruise, is worth it, worth _all_ of it.

He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He knows Aramis is the kind of man one takes or leaves, and the alternative is unthinkable. Inevitable, dysfunctional – this is just the way it goes.

So when Aramis leaves him for a full week before inviting him for dinner, then greets him with a careful kiss and tells him to make himself comfortable on the sofa, Porthos is surprised; and when Aramis brings him a beer and presses a small box into his hands, he’s entirely at a loss for a moment.

“Open it,” Aramis urges, as if that wasn’t obvious; his own hands twisting nervously in his lap.

Porthos takes the lid off, and then sort of wishes he hadn't.

He just stares for a moment, thumb tracing the lip of the printed cardboard, waiting for something to change, or for something hidden to reveal itself.

“Well?” Aramis demands, never able to handle being kept in suspense for very long.

“What the hell is this?” Porthos asks, very quietly, even though he already knows the answer.

“It’s a chastity device,” Aramis answers, still fidgeting. “I – thought you could keep the key.”

“This isn’t funny,” Porthos manages to reply through the sudden tightness in his throat; barely resisting the temptation to slam the lid of the box straight back on, to throw it across the room and hear the crash.

“No, it’s not,” Aramis agrees – and the flat weariness in his voice is so unlike what Porthos had expected (defiance, even argument) that it draws his eyes immediately; and he looks, _properly_ looks at Aramis for the first time tonight.

Aramis’ shoulders are hunched over, and he looks somehow cowed. Tense, exhausted. Vulnerable.

Before Porthos can figure out what the hell he’s supposed to say next, Aramis is already speaking again: “It’s for long-term wear. I’m – incapable of thinking ahead, as both you and Athos have already pointed out to me. I was hoping you might be willing to help me with that.”

 _Not a joke, then,_ Porthos’ brain supplies.

Aramis shifts awkwardly in his seat, and Porthos realises he’s staring; decides he doesn’t care. “I can’t lock you up,” he says eventually – falling back on the practicalities, as ever. “That’s – I’m sure that’s dangerous. What if there’s an emergency?”

“Ah. I did some research,” Aramis replies. Porthos’ mind goes completely blank again as it sinks in that _Aramis has actually bothered to research this_ ; and he takes the sheet of plastic that Aramis is holding out to him, stares at the series of small numbers, the regular perforations without understanding what it is he’s looking at.

“It doesn’t need a padlock. These are numbered cable ties,” Aramis supplies. “If it needs to come off I can just snip through them, but I can’t do it without you knowing.”

Porthos is forced to concede that this may well cover both ‘safe’ and ‘consensual’– though it certainly doesn’t seem _sane_ , not by any stretch.

Still, he finds himself asking, “How long?”

“A month.”

Porthos actually rolls his eyes at that. He’s not sure he’s ever known Aramis try and set a limit for himself that wasn’t hopelessly unrealistic. “A week.”

Aramis’ eyes narrow. “Two.”

“ _One_ week, plus the option to add up to another week for bad behaviour, at my discretion.”

“Green.”

Aramis’ eyes blaze; and Porthos realises with a strange, sinking feeling that he’s basically just agreed.

“You’d better have thought of some other conditions than just that,” he mutters defiantly; because if Aramis wants this badly enough, he’s going to have to show it. Porthos is going to make him _work_ for it.

“You decide when it comes off,” Aramis rattles off easily, a strange, aggressive smile on his face, that says _I know exactly what you’re doing_. “You decide when I get to come, who I get to fuck. I can shower with it on, but it does need to come off every few days so I can wash thoroughly. Other than that – I’m all yours.”

“Safe word?”

“ _Mañana._ ”

That does it, and he’s not sure if it’s Aramis’ determination, his own blooming curiosity, or the sound of Aramis’ tongue curling fluently around the Spanish syllables that has him hooked; but whatever it is, it has him leaning back into the corner of the sofa and swinging his feet up onto the coffee table, still in his trainers, and clicking his fingers at Aramis in that way he knows really gets his back up.

“Bring me the calendar out the loo then,” he commands lazily, “and anything you need to put that thing on.”

The calendar was a freebie from their local Chinese, which Aramis had inexplicably refused to throw away at the time, in a fit of drunken attachment; and when he returns a minute later it’s with it rolled up under one arm, and a bottle of lube in the same hand.

He hands the calendar over with a question in his face, which Porthos ignores entirely, instead holding out the box containing the chastity device. “Better get on with it then, hadn't you?”

Porthos realises he’s still angry, and that this is probably, no, _definitely_ a terrible idea. He never plays when he’s angry, that’s his first rule; but as Aramis takes his work slacks and boxers down right there in the front room – only a little awkwardly – the excuse Porthos makes to himself is that this has gone far beyond play already, and become something entirely more serious.

The… contraption is clear plastic, and not particularly sexy, in his opinion, and neither is the sight of Aramis lubing up first his mostly-flaccid cock and then the inside of the tube, securing the ring section round his balls; they are too old and too comfortable with each other for the mere sight of Aramis’ body to cause Porthos’ cock to call out with the urge to bury himself inside it, if he’s not in the mood already. But there’s still something about this, the newness and strangeness of it, that makes his shoulders tense and his heart beat faster; and that strange, giddy, weightless feeling bloom in his stomach that he remembers from the first few times they tried anything kinky all those years ago, like jumping off a ledge without being able to see how far he was about to fall.

And to take the metaphor even further, like Aramis had already dived into the blackness below and would be waiting for him at the bottom, for better or worse.

Porthos is no more a saint than Aramis is, and they both know it; but there have always been rules, rigorously adhered to. Play stays within defined limits, has a clear beginning and end, and doesn’t bleed over into the rest of their lives. He never raises a hand in anger; and any punishments he metes out are only for silly fake transgressions and never for real-world ones – no matter how often Aramis seems hell-bent on fucking his way to absolution, or would be, if Porthos would only let him.

But this is different. This is another level entirely; and Porthos doesn’t know if it’s his own petty weakness taking hold, the desire to take the pain Aramis has caused and turn it back on him – or the fact that for the first time, Aramis’ proposal doesn’t seem like a reward disguised as a punishment, that’s making him as irresponsible, as careless as Aramis always is himself.

 _Fuck it_ , he decides. _He wants it, and I want it, that’s good enough;_ and so he gestures for Aramis to come over to him with a crook of the finger, breaks off cable tie no. 000001 from the plastic sheet before leaning forward to thread it through the hinge connecting tube and ring and pulling it fast, then reaches for the calendar and a pen from the coffee table, and circles the first of May.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s cable tie number one,” Porthos explains, “and we’re in May.”

“It’d make more sense to start with January,” Aramis objects immediately.

“I don’t remember asking your opinion,” Porthos shoots back, mollified despite himself. “You’re a terrible sub sometimes. Now shut up, and put your cock away.”

Aramis’ hand slides down his body, cradling himself thoughtfully. His ball sack’s stretched tight by the ring; and Porthos sees the sudden, small jolt of pleasure in his face as he discovers that for himself, and watches the muscles tense in his stomach, partly visible below his shirt.

“Don’t you want to get acquainted first?” he purrs, giving Porthos what they’ve all taken to calling The Stare.

Unfortunately for Aramis, one of the side effects of having become acquainted with all the different shades of Aramis’ particular brand of seduction (and his particular brand of bullshit) over the years is that Porthos became completely immune to The Stare a long time ago.

“No,” he replies belligerently, “I want that dinner you promised me. I’ll let you know when I get interested.”

Even though Aramis is by no means the cook in this relationship, he manages a decent pasta without swearing too much or begging Porthos to take over, and there’s tiramisu for dessert; and throughout the evening that follows, Porthos keeps his nose buried in his book and studiously ignores every instance of Aramis frowning and adjusting himself in his sweatpants. Even though it seems genuine rather than calculated, Porthos has been wrong before; and given the point of this whole exercise, it wouldn’t do for him to look too keen.

It’s nearly ten at night when he finally leans over to squeeze Aramis’ shoulder and say, “Sweatpants and boxers, down to your knees.”

Porthos angles the standing lamp more fully towards Aramis’ crotch as he lifts his hips and slides everything down, before leaning into the sofa and draping his arms over the back, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Well, what do you think?”

Porthos doesn’t think all that much, if he’s honest; it’s just Aramis’ cock, in plastic, though he imagines the pressure of confinement as Aramis’ blood rushes south under his gaze, the ring pulling his balls tight, is hard to ignore.

He puts a hand on Aramis’ inner thigh, stroking his thumb lightly over the sensitive skin there. “How’s it feel?”

“Present,” Aramis replies, voice taut, “ _very_ present. I can’t forget about it. And – _oh,_ you fucking tease.”

Porthos pulls his hand immediately back, stifling a grin. “I should probably leave you alone then, if you’re going to get vulgar.”

“I said nothing about being polite,” Aramis replies, needled, “and neither did you.”

“Well, that’s true,” Porthos concedes; “but it’s not much of a lesson in restraint if I just give in to you, now is it?” This time he chuckles aloud when Aramis glares. “I’m not going to touch you tonight, not even to be a tease. But you’ll have some attention to look forward to tomorrow.”

Aramis appears to mull this over for a moment. “Can I at least suck you off?” he asks finally.

“’Course you can,” Porthos replies, pulling him close for a possessive kiss, one hand already going to the button at his fly. “But don’t think you’ll go changing my mind.”

The next day is Porthos’ third on the Luca Sestini detail, which turns out to involve little more than him and Athos escorting the man to endless closed-door meetings around the Palais Bourbon, leaving plenty of time for silent reflection.

While the last thing he wants while working is to think too deeply about the way Aramis undressed him the night before like he was unwrapping a present before sucking him off like a pro, swallowing him down to the root and looking up from between his legs as he worked Porthos with his throat, a seductive glint in his eye, Porthos finds it’s not the blowjob (the _very good_ blowjob, mind you) that’s lingering in his thoughts.

Instead, it’s the way Aramis cuddled up against him in bed afterwards, smattering his jaw and neck with kisses as his hands roamed restlessly over Porthos’ torso as if it was Porthos who still wanted for stimulation and not him at all, trying to subsume his own arousal in attentiveness and failing completely.

Porthos can’t remember the last time Aramis got him off without receiving anything in return.

“It aches,” Aramis eventually whispered against Porthos’ neck, “so badly. I’m so horny, it’s awful.”

“Shh,” Porthos murmured in reply, tugging at Aramis’ hair just hard enough to remind him of his place, of why he was doing this. “I know it does, baby. Just accept it, and get some sleep, yeah?”

It was as he moulded himself against Aramis’ back, one hand thrown over his waist to lightly encircle Aramis’ wrist, listening to his breathing deepen, that Porthos realised he wasn’t angry any more – and not just because he’s never been able to stay angry when Aramis needs him.

While Aramis wasn’t quite sorry – and probably never would be – Porthos genuinely believes that Aramis means this whole chastity experiment as an attempt to change himself for the better; and if Aramis needs his help for that then Porthos knows he will always be there for him, and do whatever he can.

A movement to his left draws his attention – but it’s just Athos, sitting up straighter in his seat by the door. He appears to be gritting his teeth; and Porthos wonders if it’s just that his coffee/alcohol balance is out of whack again, or if it’s something they could do to talk about.

“Aramis said you’re still pissed at him,” Porthos tries. It seems the most obvious thing.

“I’m fucking furious,” Athos replies, perfectly calmly. “I do not and will never understand why he can’t think with his brain instead of with his dick.”

“You wouldn’t,” Porthos points out – quite reasonably, he thinks.

Athos raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Point taken.” Porthos pauses, rolls his shoulders a little, trying to work out the kinks from too much sitting. “I was angry last week, but I’m not any more. He’s… I think it might have got through to him this time.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Athos grumbles, though he doesn’t press the point; and Porthos supposes that without knowing what he knows, Athos can hardly expect anything to change.

The fact is that everything’s changed – between Porthos and Aramis, at least. The knowledge of what Aramis has got in his pants is causing an answering ache in Porthos, too, making him twinge with awareness every now and then, like a burr lodged in the soft wall of his mind; digging in bright and sharp that evening as Aramis pushes him against the wall the moment they’re through the door of his flat, pressing into him with the length of his body, hands coming up to rest against the curve of his arse.

“You said today, baby,” he wheedles, nuzzling at Porthos’ neck, “remember?”

Aramis’ mouth makes a little O of surprise when Porthos yanks him back by the hair; he’s about to tell him to sit the fuck down and behave himself, but the dazed expression on Aramis’ face pulls him up short. Aramis looks like he’s already under, and Porthos wonders with not a little disquiet if he ever truly came back from last night. If this is something he should have looked for and didn’t.

“Have you been like this all day?” he asks carefully, finding he’s a little afraid of the answer.

“No…” Aramis replies, “it’s been okay. Manageable. Just getting used to the thing. But then just now it was like – bam. Like I’m high on it in seconds.”

“Alright,” Porthos replies, unconvinced – and still not quite at ease. “Just – keep a handle on yourself. If I think you’re not coping then it comes off.”

Aramis stares. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’ve got a safe word too, you know,” Porthos points out; allowing his hands to drop to Aramis’ arse for the first time, and groping appreciatively. “Dinner first, and then you’ll get some attention after – _if_ you’ve learned how to ask nicely.”

Aramis whines low in his throat when Porthos gives him a last, gentle kiss on the mouth before disentangling himself; but he manages not to pout, at least, which Porthos decides will do for now. He fully expects pouting after dinner, as he explains what he’s got planned; but when he sits Aramis on the bed and tells him that he’ll plug him if he wants, but either way the cock cage isn’t coming off, he’s taken aback by the white-hot anger that he sees flare up in his face, expression twisting with something that looks a lot like betrayal.

“You _promised,_ ” Aramis spits, body closing in on itself like a child’s. “You bastard, you fucking promised!”

For one awful, shocking moment, Porthos doesn’t know what the hell to do. He’s simultaneously aware of two things: that this is more than he knows how to handle; and that he’s responsible, has allowed Aramis to fall deeper inside himself than he’s ever seen, and that he has no choice but to handle it.

“Hey!” he replies sharply. “I did no such thing. You _watch your mouth_.” Working entirely on instinct, he grabs Aramis by the hair and pulls him forward over his lap, holding him down as he wrestles the buttons at Aramis’ fly open, pulling everything down to bare his arse and giving him a round of short, sharp spanks, until Aramis has stopped thrashing and cursing and goes limp in his arms, just letting him do it.

As they both fall quiet at last, Porthos is horribly aware of the sound of his own breathing, his chest heaving as though he’s just run a race.

Aramis shifts over his lap, curling into his body, and that snaps him out of it: Porthos leans forward and rests himself as much as possible against Aramis’ back, arms gathering him close, knowing how much he likes to be held, to feel Porthos’ weight bearing down on him, keeping him in place.

 _Aramis is an adult,_ he reminds himself, willing his thumping heart to slow; _he has a safeword, and he didn’t use it._

He can hardly bear thinking about the possibility that Aramis was somewhere where he _couldn’t._

“Hey,” he says again, softly this time, stroking Aramis’ hair. “You with me?”

“I’m sorry,” Aramis mumbles, pushing himself up on an elbow to look Porthos in the face again at last, expression sheepish. “I’m glad you did that.”

 _See?_ Porthos tells himself, _it’s okay._

“Do you want to stop this?”

“No, of course not,” Aramis replies impatiently. “And I wish you wouldn’t ask that.”

“Sorry, not a chance,” Porthos replies, shifting out from under Aramis’ body and stretching out alongside him, gathering Aramis’ wrists in his hands, holding them against his own chest. “But if you want to keep going, you’re going have to trust that I know what you need, and you’re going to take what you’re given. And you’re going to take it without complaint, because subbing to me doesn’t absolve you of the responsibility to behave like an adult.”

Aramis is silent for a long moment, before leaning forward and burying his face in Porthos’ neck. “You’re right,” he mumbles. “I was using it as an excuse to be a brat.”

“Yeah, you were,” Porthos replies with relief, squeezing Aramis’ wrists a little in his grasp. “And the apology’s accepted. But I should have been clearer about what I expected from you. I let this escalate, and I’m sorry for that.”

“I was pushing you,” Aramis replies with a smile. “I always do, remember?”

Porthos sighs. “Yeah, but – this is like nothing we’ve done before. And you need to tell me if it’s too much, if we’ve gone too deep.”

They should have negotiated this better, talked it all through before they started. Porthos should have taken some time to think, done his own research, even; but he let himself get carried along on the wave of Aramis’ own determination and the genuine remorse that he saw in him, the desire to do better. And they’ve jumped with both feet into something Porthos wasn’t ready for, where something of Aramis is completely under his control, and he’s opened his mind for Porthos to step inside – and he suddenly understands the sheer power Aramis has given him, and it’s fucking terrifying.

“I don’t want to stop,” Aramis insists, eyes wide and trusting. “I want to do this. It’s _amazing_ – I don’t know how to describe it, I just – I want to see what it is. If it’s not too much for you. Please tell me it isn’t?”

“I’m handling it,” Porthos replies, cupping Aramis’ jaw, stroking the line of his beard with a thumb, “just about. But if we keep doing this, it’s not going to be a bit of fun, it’s going to be our lives for the next week. If you push me then I’m going to push back harder, and you’re not going to like it. Okay?”

At least Aramis takes a few moments to consider, before he replies, “Green.”

“Atta boy,” Porthos replies with a smile, crushing their mouths together for a few moments. “Tell me what you need?”

He doesn’t expect Aramis to gently take Porthos’ hand and raise it to his face, rubbing Porthos’ fingers in small circles over the soft area between cheekbone and jaw.

“You sure?” Porthos asks, suddenly tense.

“Green,” Aramis repeats stubbornly; and Porthos pats him a few times to get the momentum before striking, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to sting; for Aramis to feel the shock of it, the intimacy and intensity, that puts him under faster than anything else Porthos has ever found.

Even after all the time he spent reading the manuals and then practicing in his bathroom mirror, learning exactly where to hit and how hard, until his own cheeks ached and the knowledge was ingrained in him, he was never even close to prepared for the near-dizzying rush of power he feels every time he strikes Aramis in the face, sees every defence he has fall away and his face become open and needy.

“Another. Please,” Aramis whispers under Porthos’ hand, still rubbing circles on his cheek; and Porthos obliges, striking a little harder this time, letting his hand connect and holding it against Aramis’ cheek, turning the slap into a caress.

“That’s enough,” Porthos says; and when he gathers Aramis against his chest again, it’s as much for himself as it is for Aramis.

A little later, he strips Aramis naked and buckles his collar around his neck before opening him slowly up with his fingers, stilling every time Aramis whimpers and moans; and Porthos pets his hair with his other hand, strokes the band of the leather and reminds him to relax, not to think about wanting to get off, but just to let go of everything and let Porthos inside him. Porthos kisses Aramis’ forehead and his temple and and tells him that they can stop this any time, if he’s in pain, if it gets too much; but Aramis just grits his teeth and shakes his head, as Porthos knew he would. He had vaguely wondered about fucking him tonight, but Aramis is far too strung out already to take anything more; and so Porthos just pushes the plug inside him and them pulls him close, appreciating having Aramis naked against him while he’s still fully-clothed.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently, brushing Aramis’ hair from his eyes.

“Amazing,” Aramis replies in wonder, as if he’s observing it himself from far away. “Just – once I let go of it, I felt so much peace.”

“You see?” Porthos replies fondly. “I said I knew what you needed, didn’t I?”

He can’t resist reaching around to tap the base of the plug where it’s buried in Aramis’ body, enjoying the way Aramis hums with pleasure and squirms against him.

“Let me know when you’re done, and then it’s time to sleep. I’m on earlies tomorrow.”

Aramis smiles his most persuasive smile. “I can’t persuade you to let me get you off first?”

Porthos chuckles. “Not a chance. That’s not what you need tonight.” He tweaks Aramis’ nose, ignoring the unimpressed look Aramis gives him in return, because what’s the use of having all the power if you can’t have a little fun with it? “But if you let me get an early night, I’ll leave you some instructions for tomorrow morning.”

Porthos is glad that his early shift turns out to be an active one – not only because it keeps him awake but because it also keeps his mind from Aramis, luxuriating in bed until midday; Aramis opening the envelope Porthos left on his bedside table and reading the note inside it, before leaning back and making himself comfortable against the pillows, and following his instructions to the letter.

He grabs a curry on his way back to Aramis’ flat – which is already empty, Aramis having left for work himself; and he eats it in silence at the kitchen table, glad to have some time to himself, to think things over.

He’s still not a hundred per cent sure he didn’t fuck up last night. Aramis was okay – he was fine – but it could easily have gone the other way. They didn’t know what they were getting into, and it was more than either of them knew how to deal with.

 _Aramis_ said _he was fine, didn’t he?_

_But he’s so cavalier with his own limits sometimes._

Porthos pushes the nagging doubt firmly away. He _needs_ to be able to trust Aramis, and trust that he knows his responsibility to Porthos is as great as Porthos’ responsibility to him – or none of this is safe, for either of them.

 _Let it go_ , he thinks – learn from it, and let it go. It’s just a week, it’s hardly like it’s going to be forever; in nearly a decade together, Aramis has never before shown any inclination to expand their occasional play to anything more than it is, and Porthos is fairly sure that come next Tuesday, he’ll have got it entirely out of his system, hopefully having learned something about not fucking any more clients along the way.

It’s only once he’s put his cartons in the bin and his plate in the dishwasher that he goes through into the bedroom, where a shaft of late-afternoon light illuminates the letter, left lying in the centre of the bed.

Something’s been added to the bottom of it, in Aramis’ stylish hand, contrasting with Porthos’ own careless, sleepy scrawl:

_Mission accomplished – followed by a long, cold shower. Pretended my hands were yours. God, I want you_ _~~to fu~~ _

Porthos strips off his work clothes with a smile, sitting on the bed and plumping up the pillows at the headboard before leaning back against them, pushing his boxers down and wrapping a hand round his cock, as he finally allows himself to imagine Aramis waking up slowly in the late morning, alone and horny, reaching for Porthos’ letter; then relaxing back under the covers and letting his hands roam over his body, caressing himself, mindful of all the things he isn’t allowed: no trying to touch his cock, no penetration, and definitely no coming.

It’s funny, really, how far they’ve come, when the Porthos of ten years ago had never thought he’d be into anything like this – and now they’re even doing lifestyle. But that was before he’d seen Aramis on his back, begging Porthos to let him come, shameless even then, and so peaceful and content in his own submission that it had actually taken Porthos’ breath away for a few moments.

He jerks himself off slowly and lazily, fitting with his mood, imagining Aramis working a slick knuckle back and forth over his own entrance, humming with pleasure and frustration; and comes to the thought of how desperate Aramis must have been for the pleasure that’s denied him, that Porthos can just give himself with barely a thought, as though it’s worth almost nothing to him at all.

Once he’s cleaned himself up, Porthos draws the curtains, gets under the covers and falls swiftly and deeply into sleep, only waking in hazy confusion at one am when Aramis climbs in and snuggles up to him, all cold skin and nervous, frustrated energy; and Porthos almost considers jerking him off just to settle him down before he remembers himself, kissing Aramis’ forehead instead and telling him to fucking keep still or sleep on the sofa; and is vaguely, sleepily proud when Aramis manages not to huff with annoyance but just presses silently up against him, allowing him to drift off once more.

He wakes again just after six, with the morning light already insinuating itself through the fabric of the curtains; and slides out from under Aramis’ arms with difficulty, Aramis shifting against him and trying to tighten his hold on Porthos’ chest, drawn to him even in sleep.

He makes himself a coffee and sits at the kitchen table, feeling like his brain’s still half-asleep even though his body’s wide awake; thoughts turning inevitably back to Aramis, now curled in the centre of the bed like some sort of celestial body, Porthos caught in the orbit of his need.

He realises with a lurch of guilt that it’s wearing him down.

He’d had no idea just how hard it would be, being on all the time, though in hindsight he supposes it’s obvious; and the prospect of a full day with Aramis the way he’s been so far is just making Porthos feel exhausted before he’s even begun.

If Aramis wants this in his life – in whatever capacity – then he can’t expect every moment of it to be as intense as playing a scene together, Porthos decides. They’ve both got jobs to work and bills to pay, and all the mundane chores that need to happen to keep things ticking over; they’ve got families and friends, and Porthos wants a bit of time for his. He won’t drop Aramis when he needs him, of course, but Porthos is going to have to prepare him for the fact that he’s going to need some time to himself this week, too.

Mind made up, he makes himself a sandwich and gets his laptop out; and it’s a few hours later and he’s got five different Wikipedia pages open when he hears the padding of bare feet behind him, and feels a kiss being pressed to the nape of his neck.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Aramis mumbles sleepily, “what’re you reading?” He leans forward, resting his head on Porthos’ shoulder. “The Chernobyl disaster. Seriously?”

“It’s fascinating, in a morbid sort of way,” Porthos replies, unembarrassed, and swats away the elegant hand that’s reaching for his coffee cup. “Get your own.”

Aramis huffs, and heads in the direction of the coffee machine. “I was going to wake you up with my mouth on your cock,” he calls over his shoulder, “but it seems I’ve been thwarted yet again.”

“I slept most of yesterday,” Porthos points out, twisting round in his chair. “Get yourself some breakfast, and after that we’ll shower.”

“Together?” Aramis raises an eyebrow. “Clearly it’s my lucky day.”

While Porthos hadn't quite formulated a plan for this morning, he quickly decides that Aramis’ manner is a bit too smug for his liking: too expectant, too confident that an orgasm will follow. So when he sends Aramis into the bathroom with the instruction not to take anything off just yet, Porthos lingers in the bedroom to pick up a short coil of rope and the safety shears, and after a moment’s consideration, the sheet of cable ties.

Aramis is standing at ease on the bath mat, and gives a low whistle when he sees what Porthos has in his hands. “Kinky. I like it.”

“You would,” Porthos replies, dropping everything on the ledge next to the sink before kissing Aramis on the mouth, sliding his palms down Aramis’ bare chest and catching on his nipples, until he reaches the waist of Aramis’ sweatpants, pushing them down and off his hips.

As he leans over to turn the water on, Aramis gives him a look. “Isn’t there something else that needs to come off first?” he asks, challenging.

Porthos grabs a fistful of Aramis’ hair and yanks it backwards, baring his throat, just hard enough to make Aramis let out a startled cry of pain. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aramis replies quickly, somehow managing to look simultaneously fearful and aroused.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Porthos replies, tugging a little more for emphasis, “but I think you’d better watch your tone, if you don’t want me to _misinterpret_. Now get in.”

Aramis obediently gets into the shower cubicle, with a little _oh_ of pleasure as he steps under the warm spray. Porthos quickly shucks off his own sweatpants and climbs in behind him, pulling the door shut at his back. It’s a tight fit with the both of them, but he decides it’s worth it as he reaches for the shower gel and starts to rub it all over Aramis’ back and shoulders, working his way down his body before turning him round to do his front, soaping him up everywhere except his crotch.

Aramis is enjoying himself, at least, Porthos reflects with a glow of affection, as he squeezes out a handful of shampoo; he’s luxuriating in the attention shown him, enjoying it without pushing for more, without even asking. It’s almost enough to divert Porthos from his plans, and give him even more to enjoy – but no, he still remembers the smug satisfaction on Aramis’ face when he told him they were showering together, and that he clearly still has unwarranted expectations he needs to let go of.

“Back in a moment,” he announces once Aramis has rinsed the shampoo from his hair; and he presses a still-soapy finger to Aramis’ lips as he opens his mouth to respond, ignoring his expression of distaste. “No talking, darling. You just stay quiet and wait for me.”

He steps neatly out of the shower and over to grab the rope and the shears, dripping on the floor, and gets quickly back in.

“Switch places with me,” he orders; and he and Aramis step awkwardly round each other, as he leans over to put the shears down. “I’m going to tie your hands behind you. For God’s sake watch your step, the last thing I want is you slipping in here. Then I’m going to take the chastity device off. Okay? You can answer me.”

“Yes. Green,” Aramis replies, with a note of impatience; his blood rushing south already, no doubt, at the prospect of freedom.

“Alright. Hands behind your back.”

Porthos makes short work of the binding at Aramis’ wrists, even with wet hands; he’s had enough practice over the years, and is done in little more than a minute. “Turn around.”

“Beautiful,” Porthos murmurs as Aramis turns himself carefully round; taking a moment to look him up and down, skin golden and gleaming with droplets, and trying to hide his impatience, cock no doubt stating to press uncomfortably against its confines once more.

He leans in and kisses Aramis hard on the mouth, careful not to unbalance him. “I’m going to do myself first, gorgeous, and then we’ll see about the rest of you.”

Aramis’ face twitches in an attempt to keep his expression neutral, and Porthos can’t help but grin.

He deliberately takes his time washing himself, watching as Aramis’ eyes follow the path of his hands with near-palpable hunger; lingering at his own groin, teasing, soaping up his cock generously and giving it a few slick tugs until he’s pleasantly half-hard, and Aramis is starting to look like his self-control is a moment away from snapping.

“Alright,” Porthos says at last, when he can justify drawing the moment out no longer, reaching for the shears, “I think it’s time to get that thing off.”

He kneels down on the hard plastic shower tray, reaching for the loop of cable tie no. 000001 and snipping carefully through it, pulling it clear before easing the pieces of plastic off of Aramis’ genitals.

Because he is nothing if not deliberately annoying sometimes, Porthos cleans the cage first; and when he turns back to Aramis with a palmful of shower gel at the ready it’s to find him already fully hard, cock jutting out stiffly below his belly and demanding attention.

Aramis moans, long, drawn-out and jagged, as Porthos’ hand wraps lightly round him. “ _God_ , that’s good. So good.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Porthos warns, easing his grip off even more; “this is purely for hygiene purposes.”

“You’re not going to get me off?”

The look on Aramis’ face is one of genuine shock.

“Did I say I would?” Porthos replies as he finishes soaping Aramis up, reaching for the shower head to rinse him off. “Now, let me know if you can calm yourself down enough for me to put the cage back on, or if you’re going to need me to put this on cold for a bit first.”

Aramis stays sullenly mute as Porthos helps him out of the shower cubicle and dries off his crotch, before putting the cage back on – with a little difficultly, Aramis’ cock still stubbornly half-hard – and fastening it with the second cable tie from the strip.

 _He’s welcome to sulk if he wants to_ , Porthos reminds himself as he unties Aramis’ hands before taking the towel to his dripping hair, then rubbing it down over his body, steadfastly ignoring the guilt that’s prickling at him.

_If he doesn’t want this, then he can stop it any time he likes._

Porthos knows from experience that his own capacity for silence far outweighs Aramis’; and he’s dried him off completely and has moved the towel onto his own body before Aramis finally cracks.

“Porthos…”

“I want you to think very carefully about what you’re about to say,” Porthos replies, in a tone that’s supposed to be a warning, but just comes out sounding weary. If Aramis is still pushing back then he’ll have to handle it, by his own rules; but he’s rapidly getting fed up of doing this, and he’s not sure he has the strength left to take Aramis in hand once more and not come out of it resenting him.

“I just – I need it,” Aramis mumbles, looking at the movement of the towel along Porthos’ chest instead of at his face. “I’m trying not to, I really am, but – I feel like it’s making me crazy.”

All the frustration in Porthos’ chest dissolves in moments, and compassion rushes in to take its place; and he takes Aramis in his arms, not caring that he’s getting him wet again, or that the towel’s falling from his hips. “I know it’s hard, darling,” he replies soothingly, “or it wouldn’t be worth doing. And you’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you.”

His hand comes up to cradle Aramis’ jaw. “Do you know why I’m not letting you come yet?”

Aramis frowns. “No?”

“Remember, you can always ask me why, provided you do it respectfully,” Porthos reminds him, briefly pressing his thumb to Aramis’ bottom lip. “I’m not letting you come because when we were in the kitchen before, you looked like you expected it. Like you thought that because I was taking the cage off, that meant you’d get to come. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” Aramis replies, understanding dawning on his face. “I assumed.”

“And that’s what we’re working on,” Porthos explains. “That expectation. That entitlement. Orgasm is a privilege for you now, it’s not a right. And when you stop expecting anything at all, that’s when you’ll have started to earn that privilege. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, with a smile that’s a little bit guilty. “I can’t get anything past you, can I?”

“I think the last time was in 2012,” Porthos quips, giving Aramis’ chest a last scrub with the towel before bending down and gathering up Aramis’ sweatpants from the floor, for him to step back into. “Now. Would you like to kneel for a bit, calm you down?”

“Please,” Aramis replies gratefully, pulling Porthos up into a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Porthos replies, kissing Aramis’ mouth again, and then his forehead. “Come join me when you’re ready.”

Porthos knows, from long experience, that Aramis can manage to kneel for a maximum of about twenty minutes even when he’s feeling particularly submissive; and even though Aramis is resting his cheek on Porthos’ knee with his eyes peacefully closed, pushing his head occasionally against the hand petting his hair, Porthos only gives him about ten minutes before patting him lightly on the cheek and saying, “Up you get. Go and lie on the bed for me.”

He grabs the shears from the shower before following Aramis into the bedroom, where he lies down on the bed beside him and pulls his sweatpants down to his knees again, before cutting through cable tie no. 000002, and removing the cage from his cock with gentle fingers.

Aramis is almost completely hard again as Porthos wraps his hand around his cock; and he looks into his eyes with something like wonder for a moment before raising his head to meet Porthos’ lips, kissing him desperately.

“You’re not to come without permission,” Porthos says; and it’s only a minute or two until Aramis is gasping beneath him already, panting out _please, please_ ; and Porthos thinks he’s never looked more beautiful than the moment when Porthos says _no, not yet, darling, not yet,_ _hold on for me_ and his face falls instantly, naked in his need, clutching at Porthos’ shoulder hard enough to bruise, as if he’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

Porthos edges him twice, and by the third time Aramis is starting to look wild with it, brow glistening with sweat and tears pricking in the corners of his eyes; and Porthos waits for the moment he can see Aramis just about steeling himself to ask before he says “Come for me;” and Aramis throws his head back, screwing his eyes shut and gasping aloud, _ah, ah, fuck!_ as he comes, hot and messy into Porthos’ palm.

Porthos lets Aramis lick the come from his fingers and snuggle up against him, peppering his bare shoulders with kisses; and he waits until Aramis is calm and quiet in his arms before saying, “I think I’m going to go home for a few days.”

Aramis lifts his head to frown at him, too sated to be wary. “What? Why?”

“Okay. This is – hard work for me,” Porthos replies honestly, hoping that Aramis won’t take it the wrong way. “Not _this_ bit, obviously, but the whole package. It’s not that I’m not enjoying it, I am, but – I seriously thought about safewording in the bathroom earlier.”

“Oh,” Aramis replies, deflated. “I – didn’t know.”

“No, I didn’t expect you to,” Porthos says, as reassuringly as he can, squeezing Aramis tighter to him. “I can imagine what it’s like for you, I don’t expect there’s enough space left in your mind for how I’m feeling as well. But I need to take care of myself too.”

“Of course,” Aramis replies, reaching for his hand. “Do you – want to stop?”

“I thought about it,” Porthos admits. “But I think there’s another way. If we kept on doing this, after this week – if you wanted to – it wouldn’t be this crazy all the time. We just wouldn’t be able to sustain it. So if I go home, I leave you with the same rules as before, and you get to live with it for a few days, do your own thing, and see what it’s like when I’m not here every minute of the day.”

“Sounds good,” Aramis replies, “I’d rather do that than stop. Are you okay, though… am I okay?”

“You are, yeah. I meant it when I said you’re doing well,” Porthos reassures him, kissing his lips again. “I can see you’re trying, which is what’s important. And you’re trying to change your own behaviour patterns, it can’t be easy.”

“It’s not,” Aramis agrees wryly. “But – you’re not running off just yet, are you?”

“I’ll make us lunch first,” Porthos replies, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Put the cage back on for me, I’ll go and find the cable ties.”

Porthos comes back into the bedroom half a minute later with the calendar and cable tie no. 000003 in his hand, and kisses Aramis deeply on the mouth as he locks his cock up once more, before crossing off the first and second of May, and circling the third.

Aramis puts a careful hand on his arm. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Probably Monday for dinner, I’ll call you if not. Go out somewhere, have some fun.”

“No sex,” Aramis complains; but there’s no heat in it.

“No sex,” Porthos agrees. “Unless you do want to stop this?”

Aramis gives him a sharp look. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Promise you’ll call me if you need me though,” Porthos insists. “Just because I want a bit of time to myself, doesn’t mean I want to leave you hanging.”

“Promise,” Aramis echoes, giving him a gentle shove in the shoulder. “Now go and make that lunch you were talking about.”

Porthos sticks his tongue out at Aramis as he gets to his feet. “Always wanting something, ain’t you?”

Aramis grins easily. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

It’s testament to just how done Porthos is, mentally speaking, that even the bus trip back to his flat seems relaxing, despite the combination of a baby screaming on the upper deck and the way the driver keeps slamming on the brakes at every red light, sending him rocking back and forth. It would normally be driving him crazy, but this afternoon he’s just glad to be alone, responsible for nothing other than staying in his seat.

His flat is quiet and cool, and he leaves the curtains drawn, puts _Firefly_ on for the umpteenth time and cracks open a beer, relaxing into the familiarity of the well-loved narrative; and he makes it through two full episodes before realising he hasn’t thought about Aramis at all.

It’s still early, and he debates calling Athos and asking if he fancies some introverts’ socialisation; but instead decides in favour of going down the gym and then spending a solid three hours cooking a Heston Blumenthal spaghetti bolognese, which he knows from experience is just as good on the reheating, and should take him and Aramis half a week to get through together.

He falls into bed at eleven, pleasantly exhausted, and wakes early for his Sunday shift to two messages from Aramis:

_Out with Pilar and Cristiana. Kinda glad I don’t want to fuck anybody in this bar_

and

_Going to Mass this morning, see what Father Giraud says re changing ingrained behaviour patterns. Probably not going to ask him about Biblical basis for orgasm control though_

Porthos chuckles, smiling fondly at his phone as he bashes out a quick reply before throwing his clothes on, grabbing a banana from the sideboard on his way out of the door, and making it to the bus stop just on time.

He and Athos spend the day getting in and out the back of a diplomatic limo with Luca Sestini, as he makes a full seven hours’ worth of visits to various French dignitaries which seem to be nothing more than excuses for photo ops. It’s boring as hell, with no opportunity to chat either; and Porthos does invite Athos over to his after, for reheated bolognese and Nintendo.

He’s just kicking Athos’ arse quite roundly into the middle of next week when his personal phone goes: the display showing a familiar picture of him and Aramis on a wharf in Corsica, white shirts and dark glasses with a china-blue sky behind. He's taking the photo; Aramis is licking his neck.

“Hey. I’m just beating Athos at Mario Kart.”

“Mario Kart? Very butch,” Aramis laughs on the other end of the phone.

“Love you too,” Porthos replies sarcastically. “You need anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Aramis replies quickly – and a little wistfully, Porthos thinks. “Just wanted to see how you were. But I’ll let you get back to your hopelessly nineties video game.”

“You should go out somewhere,” Porthos insists, “you sound like you need it. D’Artagnan’s off tonight, you could give him a call. Relive your youth.” He catches Athos’ eye, and they smirk at each other. “Or one of your twelve sisters.”

“ _Three_ sisters, Porthos, I have three sisters,” Aramis replies, with the air of one who’s explained this too many times before. “But that’s a good idea. I’ll call Sofía, see if I can crash her salsa class.”

“Enjoy,” Porthos replies, before saying his goodbyes; and as he hangs up, he realises that Athos is watching him assessingly.

“What?”

“I believe that you’re not angry,” Athos says slowly, as if he’s still working it out for himself, “but there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Porthos knows that Athos will let it go if he asks him to; but as he thinks about it, he decides it might actually help to hear his opinion – not about the kink, of course, but about what’s behind it. Athos, after all, knows Aramis almost as well as he does.

“I needed a break,” Porthos admits, reaching for his beer, “that’s why I’m here and he’s not. It got a bit much, with everything that’s gone on… anyway, he really wants to change this time. He’s fed up of fucking up, I think. And I want to believe he can, but…”

“Is it a case of the leopard trying to change its spots,” Athos finishes for him, matter-of-fact as ever. “Well, it’s certainly not going to be easy for him. I’ve never seen Aramis exhibit any self-control before.” He raises his eyebrows, and gives a lopsided shrug. “But if he wants it enough, and he’s prepared to work enough for it, then it should be possible.

“I hope he succeeds, for your sake as much as anything,” Athos concludes, taking a swig of his beer. “While I do have a lot of time for Aramis, I could stand for him to be a little less consistently disappointing.”

 _Harsh, but fair,_ Porthos decides; and wants to laugh for a moment as the thought pops into his head that Athos could be a better dom to Aramis than he is, were his desires a little different. His lack of emotional investment could only be a plus point.

This leads him onto another thought – and he hesitates for a moment, because even though they’re best mates, Athos invites personal questions the same way a tiger invites cuddles; but decides fuck it, why not, the worst Athos can do is refuse to answer.

“Do you ever think about dating?”

Athos looks mildly surprised by the question; but not annoyed, at least. “No, not really,” he replies, “I could, I suppose. Asexual women, anyway. But it doesn’t bother me, not having anyone. I prefer having my own time and space.”

“Fair enough,” Porthos replies. “Best of five?”

“I’m fairly sure you’re already three rounds up,” Athos points out, reaching for his controller again, “but by all means.”

Once Athos has gone, Porthos gives Aramis a call back, but decides he’s glad when his phone goes through to voicemail, which he knows for a fact Aramis never listens to anyway. That means he’s out having fun somewhere, and Porthos can spend an hour or so reading before easing himself into sleep, maybe thinking up a plan for Tuesday evening along the way.

He definitely wants to fuck Aramis this time, Porthos decides, as his hand reaches down to wrap around his cock. He hasn’t really thought about sex since the last time he saw Aramis, which was only yesterday lunchtime but feels like a lot longer, and he wonders how he’s been coping. Badly, probably, Porthos decides; although it would be even better, and certainly makes a better fantasy to jerk himself off to, to imagine Aramis resolved, frustrated yet determined, aware every moment of the day what the strange pressure, the periodic ache in his cock signifies, that he’s given himself up entirely to Porthos’ firm, guiding hand.

Porthos has been so busy thinking about Aramis – how Aramis is feeling, whether he’s coping, what he needs – that he’s hardly thought about what _he_ might like about this whole chastity thing, for himself.

The aesthetics of the cage don’t do it for him, but then he’s never been an aesthetics kind of guy. That’s much more Aramis’ area – as are the high of subspace, the intensity of sensation play, the heightened emotions.

What Porthos likes is the psychology. The part Aramis hadn't bothered explaining to him, of course, all those years ago, or he’d have definitely been a lot more curious a lot more quickly. But Aramis had only said it was fun, that it felt good for him; and it wasn’t until Porthos had three fingers buried inside him and told him he wasn’t to come for the third time that the sheer awe of having Aramis beneath him, slack-jawed with pleasure and wonder and complete trust, hit Porthos like a ton of bricks, and had him hooked.

There was no stopping him after that: he read book after book, and probably a kilometre of informational websites with dodgy capitalisation conventions and vision-mangling white-text-on-black layouts; and they tried most of the things he read about, and Porthos found something he liked in most of them too.

And yet it had never occurred to him that either of them might want something that lasted longer than just a single evening.

What they’re doing together now is about so much more than just having fun, more than just pleasure. It’s about helping Aramis to become a better version of himself, become the person he’s decided he wants to be, and it’s thoroughly hard work; but at the same time, it’s just as simple as that first evening they played together, just that same, pure control.

Porthos hadn't known you could have control over another human being that was so completely healthy, so completely consensual. He hadn't known that there was a way to fulfil those strange, secret desires that he imagines everyone must carry round with them: in Aramis’ case, the need to give up all responsibility for his own needs and emotions, to let someone else make his decisions for him and hold him close, rein him in and stop him spiralling; and for Porthos it’s the desire to lavish another person with more care and attention than any one person normally needs, to have them dependent upon him, and make them the centre of his world.

Control, for him, is care. Having Aramis dependent upon him for fulfilment of his needs, setting aside all ego, all destructive impulses. Providing correction when it’s required, all the better to lavish Aramis with praise and with pleasure when he finally lets go of his own will, and lets Porthos take charge.

Porthos slides his hand up and down his shaft, finding a comfortable rhythm as he imagines Aramis working himself open, as Porthos did the other day. The cage on his cock forcing him to take his time, to stop whenever the discomfort gets too much, to breathe deeply and relax himself instead of tensing up with arousal; unable to help but think of Porthos, that he’s doing this for him.

He imagines Aramis on hands and knees, hard, with Porthos’ fingers inside him; almost shaking with gratitude at being able to take his pleasure at last, begging for Porthos to fuck him, _please, please_ , to let him come with Porthos’ cock thrusting deep inside him.

The only thing Porthos loves more than having Aramis beg for pleasure is giving it to him. Touching him, sucking him, fucking him; making him come, making him high. Making him thrash and moan, curse in his mother tongue, making him dazed, blissed-out; and it’s the thought of Aramis on his back, face screwed up in ecstasy, shooting ropes of white across his own belly as Porthos fucks him over the edge that makes him come with a groan, spilling all over his hand.

 _Soon,_ he promises Aramis in his mind, as he cleans up and brushes his teeth, before stripping down to his boxers and getting under the covers. _Not long now, darling, you just need a little more patience._

He’s woken at five thirty by a call to his work phone.

“Hello?” he mumbles, just about managing to pick up the thing and answer it without cancelling the call or knocking anything off his bedside table.

“Porthos.” Tréville. “Marchant’s called in sick. I need you to join Aramis for the Anne Bourbon detail. Seven am, at the Bourbon townhouse at Hôtel de Ville.”

“I’ll be there,” Porthos replies thickly, hanging up and dropping the phone in his lap, a slow, cold dread seeping through the haze of tiredness.

Spending the day with Aramis, guarding the woman Aramis really, _really_ shouldn’t have slept with.

 _I’m overreacting,_ Porthos decides as he kicks his coffee machine into gear; it’s just work. Alright, it’ll probably be as awkward as fuck guarding the woman his boyfriend slept with alongside said boyfriend, who’ll be wearing a chastity device under his trousers, in part to prevent any repeat performances… but they’re both professionals, and hopefully she’ll want to spend the day going round the Galeries Lafayette or something and he won’t have the time to think about how weird the whole situation is.

Of course, when Porthos _does_ arrive at the Bourbon townhouse – at about two minutes to seven, and only just in time to sneak a quick kiss from Aramis before they buzz themselves in – the men they’re relieving inform them that Madame isn’t expected to be up and dressed for another three hours.

Porthos thanks their colleagues and wishes them a good morning, privately hoping Madame will decide to stay in bed until mid-afternoon at least, and he won’t have to face her at all.

Things aren’t awkward with Aramis, at least, although they’re both very much in Work Mode; but they manage to pass the time well enough talking about Sofía’s newest unsuitable girlfriend and the number of women that were giving Aramis the eye the night before (he claims to have counted five, which Porthos is fairly sure means it was more like two), and Porthos successfully manages to avoid thinking about their personal situation, and what he wants to do when they go home together.

When Anne Bourbon does eventually emerge from her rooms at a quarter to eleven, her eyes light on Porthos first, giving him a cold, curious look, before addressing herself to Aramis. “No Marchant this morning?”

“He’s ill, Madame,” Aramis replies, inclining his head far enough to almost be a bow – and Porthos could swear that if he had a hat on, he’d be tipping it. “You remember Porthos.”

“Of course,” Anne replies, the strange expression still on her face, as her eyes flick to Porthos and back to Aramis again. “Please ask them to bring the car around. I shall be visiting Madame de Larroque this morning.”

Aramis bows his head again. “Of course, Madame.”

It’s a while since he’s seen Anne Bourbon; and Porthos isn’t sure what’s weirder, the almost excessively deferential way Aramis seems to treat her, or the way she just looked at him.

“What the hell was all that about?” he hisses, once Aramis has finished calling her driver.

“She knows who you are. I told her.” When Porthos doesn’t say anything for a moment, Aramis pushes. “Does that bother you?”

“Not particularly,” Porthos replies, “but it clearly bothers her.” And it’s hopefully enough to keep her from thinking about any repeat performances, he wants to add; but given where they are, doesn’t quite dare.

He realises that he doesn’t know exactly _what_ Aramis told Anne – that they’re together, clearly, but not whether they’re open, whether Porthos knows that Aramis slept with her, whether Aramis was planning to tell him – but he doesn’t care, Porthos decides, a little vindictively, if it keeps her away from him.

Not that he _blames_ Anne, exactly; it’s an open secret within the company that the Bourbons’ marriage is little more than a business arrangement, and Porthos knows all too well what it is to be taken in by Aramis’ charms. But the risk to Aramis, and perhaps, by extension, to the rest of them, is too great to be borne.

While he’s rarely on Anne’s detail and doesn’t know what she’s normally like, it seems to Porthos that his presence is drive enough to keep her out of their way as much as possible; at Madame de Larroque’s he and Aramis are asked to wait in the hallway, and on their return to the townhouse, Anne announces her intention to retire for the afternoon, not to be disturbed. The hours drag by, and when three o’clock finally rolls round it’s a relief.

“You’re coming to mine?” Aramis asks as they step out into the street together – and there’s something tentative in his voice that brings Porthos up short. He’d been so busy worrying about Anne Bourbon that he clean forgot he said he’d be coming back this evening.

He only has to think about it for a moment to realise that he’s ready – that he wants this again.

“’Course,” he replies, taking Aramis by the elbow and gripping firmly. “Lead the way.”

It’s a good evening. A _normal_ evening. They pick up pizza on the way home and eat it on the sofa in front of some awful dinner-time game show that seems to have rules which are far too complicated for Porthos to follow after a six am start, and Aramis laughs at him for not getting it before getting completely sucked in himself, cursing out the contestants with expansive hand gestures whenever they can’t make sense of a _simple logical link, where the fuck do they even find these people?_

And when Porthos leads Aramis into the shower this time he doesn’t tie his hands, only instructs him to keep them clasped behind his back, not thinking for a moment that Aramis won’t obey; and when he dries him off afterwards and fixes the cage back on with cable tie no. 000004, Aramis closes his eyes and accepts it, thoroughly at peace, before kissing Porthos like he wants to lose himself between his lips.

A text from Tréville at half past eight tells Porthos he’s on again with Aramis tomorrow morning; and as he puts his work phone back on the bedside table, he reaches down to clasp Aramis’ wrist in his hand where he’s reaching for the crotch of Porthos’ sweatpants, and says, “ _Instead_ of that, tell me how you’ve been.”

“Frustrated,” Aramis replies immediately, with a grimace, “but… it wasn’t so bad, actually. Not as bad as I expected. I tried to think about why I’m doing this, instead of just getting annoyed – and I know I’m doing it for me really, but I’d rather feel like I’m doing it for you.”

Porthos leans over to kiss Aramis’ forehead, suddenly filled with warmth. “You’re doing it for me because I’m helping you do it for yourself.”

He’s never been so glad to be right. To have the proof that a little distance from him was exactly what Aramis needed, to make him take some responsibility back on himself; and he was going to make him wait until tomorrow, he really was, but Aramis _gets_ it now. He no longer expects anything, and Porthos wants to reward him for that.

 _Fuck it_ , he decides – _go with your gut_. Domming’s about instinct, about reading the situation and being reactive, not about blindly following an inflexible set of plans.

He slides a hand into Aramis’ hair, at the base of his scalp, and tugs his head gently back until Aramis’ throat is bared to him, and their eyes meet.

“Bring me your collar.”

“Yes, Sir,” Aramis breathes in reply, eyes widening; and Porthos doesn’t really care for the honorific, but he’ll take it as a sign that Aramis is exactly where he wants him to be.

Aramis kneels on the bed with his head bowed, collar laid across his upturned palms. The pale, swirling patterns stamped into the chocolate-brown leather have always reminded Porthos of the cathedral they visited in Córdoba, a former mosque, and the naked wonder on Aramis’ face as he looked up at the vaulted ceiling, offering something of himself as generously to God as he does to Porthos.

As he buckles the collar at the nape of Aramis’ neck and clicks the tiny padlock shut, draping the delicate chain with the key on around his own neck, Porthos wonders if God, should He really exist, would be appalled by the comparison.

He likes to think He would have more of a sense of humour.

Porthos leans in to kiss Aramis swiftly on the mouth, hooking one finger under the leather of the collar, just enough to put a little pressure on his throat. “Hands and knees. And close your eyes.”

He isn’t sure what Aramis is expecting – nothing at all, he hopes – but he shivers violently at the first touch of Porthos’ tongue against his arsehole, letting out a wordless noise of surprise, before rocking back into Porthos’ face, humming happily.

Porthos smiles to himself, wondering if Aramis can feel it. They both know how much he adores getting rimmed; the intimacy of it, the warm wetness, the promise of things to come.

“I did this,” Aramis says raggedly, as Porthos licks a broad stripe up from the plastic ring behind his balls, “yesterday, with my fingers. Before I called you. I would have told you, if Athos hadn’t been there.”

Porthos pulls back a little in order to say, “Don’t talk about Athos now. Go on.”

“It was good – it was _so_ good – but it was weird, not being able to touch myself. It made me appreciate it more, for what it was, I think. I wanted it to be you, though, your hands, your _mouth – God –_ anything at all, even if I don’t come, even if you don’t take the cage off –”

“Shh,” Porthos takes his tongue away briefly, stroking Aramis’ flank reassuringly with his hand. “You just relax, baby. That’s what I want, for you not to worry about a thing, just stay calm and take what I give you. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ll – I’ll try.”

“You’ll do it,” Porthos replies confidently, “I know you can. Now keep your eyes closed,” he instructs, as he gets off the bed and goes over to the chest of drawers, rummaging around inside until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Hey.” He sits down on the mattress beside Aramis’ head, pulls him into a kiss for a moment before winding the length of black silk over his eyes, knotting it securely behind his head. “I love you. You’re doing great.”

“Love you too,” Aramis replies, peacefully, resting his jaw against Porthos’ hand.

“Glad to hear it. You just enjoy yourself and let me take care of everything, yeah?”

“Green.”

“Alright, gorgeous.” Porthos shifts down the bed, running a hand along Aramis’ spine as he goes, wanting to keep that contact and have Aramis feel where he is, and not to do anything that might surprise him. “I’m going to open you up with my fingers. Remember, you’re not to come without my permission.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aramis replies faintly, as Porthos reaches for the lube and slicks up his first two fingers, before pushing carefully inside; taking his time to work Aramis open, slowly and steadily, avoiding his prostate for now.

Porthos keeps stroking Aramis’ arse, his thighs, his side with his other hand as he stretches him open, a reassuring, grounding touch. He wants him fully ready, but not too far gone; and once he feels Aramis loosening sufficiently around his fingers he stills experimentally, taking a moment to see if he’ll tense up in anticipation. Aramis stays obediently still, though, leaning on his forearms with his cheek pressed against the covers; his breathing’s calm and even, and he seems to Porthos to be well and truly under.

Porthos slides his fingers carefully out of Aramis’ body, reaching for a washcloth to wipe his hand. “On your back, darling,” he encourages, pushing gently at Aramis’ hip to show him which way to roll, before lifting his head and propping it up on a pillow.

“I’m going to take the cage off now,” he continues, reaching for the safety shears, “and I want you to stay nice and relaxed for me, and just let yourself float. Are you floating now?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies; and Porthos can hear the distance in his voice.

“That’s good,” he replies, reaching for Aramis’ hand and giving it a quick squeeze, “you just keep on floating like that.”

Porthos leans over between Aramis’ legs. captures cable tie no. 000004 between his fingers and cuts through, before sliding the plastic pieces off with newly-practiced hands.

He leaves the cage on the corner of the bed, wrapping a hand around Aramis’ ankle to keep the connection between them, and just sits for a moment, taking in the sight of Aramis spread out before him, Aramis blindfolded and collared and _beautiful_ , cock swelling and thickening now there’s nothing restraining it, purpling beneath his gaze. He reminds himself that this is only happening because he wills it, because Aramis has surrendered his own pleasure entirely to Porthos’ control, and the sweet warmth of power fizzes in his veins like champagne.

He takes hold of Aramis’ legs and pushes them carefully up to his chest, giving Aramis the time to roll his hips up with it, to realise what must be coming.

“Okay, darling, I’m going to fuck you now, and once I’ve come, then you’ll be able to come too. Alright?”

“ _Ohh_ ,” Aramis groans, cock stiffening even more as Porthos’ words sink in. “I don’t know if I can hold out.”

“You can, and you will,” Porthos insists, as gently as he can, stroking his hands down Aramis’ shins. “I know you can do this, baby. And we can take all the time you need.”

“Alright,” Aramis agrees. “But – would you hold my wrists?”

“Of course I will,” Porthos replies, suddenly a little overwhelmed with love; and he leans forward over Aramis’ body to kiss him deeply, one hand pressing lightly on his throat, over the collar. “Ready?”

“Yes. Green,” Aramis murmurs, and Porthos sits back up, takes a little time to stroke himself back to full hardness, before rolling on a condom.

Aramis stiffens as he feels the head of Porthos’ cock nudging at his entrance; and Porthos stops, strokes the underside of his thigh reassuringly. “Hey. Relax. I’m not going to fuck you until you’ve relaxed.”

“Alright,” Aramis replies, as though with great effort; but some of the tension seeps from his muscles, and Porthos takes that as his cue to push slowly, steadily inside.

Aramis lets out a shuddering gasp as Porthos pushes himself in up to the hilt; before stilling, giving Aramis time to get used to being filled, though his body already wants nothing more than to thrust. “ _Fuck_ ,” Aramis moans, “ _God_ – it’s just – _fuck…_ ”

“Just breathe, darling, I’ve got you. Just breathe. Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Green,” Aramis replies; and Porthos leans forward, places his hands over Aramis’ forearms, just above the joint of the wrist, and presses down as he starts to thrust in and out.

He knows Aramis loves being fucked, overloaded with sensation, and this is so familiar to him that he’s surprised to find just how fucking turned on he is _already_. It feels like all the emotion of the past week – all Aramis’ frustration, his resolve, his pent-up desire; all Porthos’ stress, his care, the power he holds – that’s been buffeting back and forth between them has come to ground itself at last, crystallised in the conjoinment of their two bodies, in and out, give and take, control and surrender.

“Please,” Aramis gasps, “it’s too much – please, _please –_ ” and fighting every instinct his body has, Porthos stills inside him; letting go of Aramis’ wrists for a moment, putting his weight on one free hand and lifting the other one to Aramis’ face.

“Breathe, baby,” he commands, “keep yourself under control. That’s good. Do it for me. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Aramis’ face is a study in concentration: Porthos can imagine his eyes are screwed shut beneath the blindfold as he bites his lip, nails digging into his palms, willing himself away from the edge. He’s gorgeous like this, and Porthos is so proud of him, and so desperate to fuck him again; but he waits too, clamps down on his own urges for the full half-minute until Aramis says, “Green,” in a voice that shakes, and Porthos puts his hands back on Aramis’ wrists again and starts to move.

It feels amazing inside his body, that hot, tight, perfect pressure; and watching Aramis beneath him, trying to relax even against the insistent arousal that must be building in him even more strongly than it is in Porthos, is enough to have Porthos on the edge far sooner than he expected.

He lets his orgasm rise and rise; and when Aramis says again, “Stop, _please_ , I can’t –” and Porthos forces himself to still inside him once more, he’s too far gone already – and he groans and shudders as his climax rushes through him with the force of a gale.

“Oh God,” Aramis gasps, “ _God_ , can I, _please –_ ”

“ _Wait_ ,” Porthos growls, shifting his weight off Aramis’ wrists; leaning his weight fully forward and bracing himself on one elbow as he wraps his other hand across Aramis’ throat, squeezing lightly. “Come for me,” he murmurs, and it’s a matter of moments before Aramis shakes and sobs beneath him, clenching violently around Porthos’ cock as he climaxes, the warmth and stickiness of his come covering their bellies.

Porthos shifts back and slides his cock carefully out, resting one leg against Aramis’ body as he disposes of the condom, leaving it on top of the used washcloth for now; he knows Aramis isn’t ready for Porthos to leave him yet, not even for a few moments.

Aramis is already curling around into Porthos’ body, hands reaching for him; and Porthos lies back down beside him and pulls him close, hands running soothingly along his back, kissing the skin under his mouth.

“There, you did brilliantly, love,” he says, “I’m so proud of you.”

Porthos pulls off the blindfold, Aramis keeping his eyes firmly shut; then his hand moves to Aramis’ neck, fingering the elaborate patterns in the leather as he waits, until the moment when Aramis finally raises his head a few minutes later, slowly blinking his eyes open. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Porthos smiles. “Are you back with me?”

“Yeah,” Aramis replies, slowly, as if he’s just waking up. “Just about. That was – incredible.”

“I’m glad. It was for me too.” Porthos runs a finger along the skin of Aramis’ neck where it meets the leather of his collar. “Give me just a moment, and I’ll get you cleaned up.”

He brings back a warm, wet cloth and wipes the drying semen from both their skin, cleaning Aramis’ cock and right down between his legs, and then drying him off with a towel before reaching for the cage and putting it back on. He’s just fastening it closed with cable tie no. 000005 when Aramis suddenly says, “I don’t want this to stop tomorrow.”

“No?” Porthos replies, looking carefully up at him.

“No,” Aramis echoes. “Right now, I don’t want it to stop, ever. Which, I’m not suggesting that,” he adds hurriedly, as Porthos gives him a look that means _that’s not exactly informed consent now, is it,_ “but – I’d like a bit more time, I suppose is what I’m asking.”

Porthos silently takes Aramis’ hand in his, lacing their fingers together as he takes a long moment to consider. He’s determined not to rush into this again, to agree to something he’s not sure he can handle; and his head swims for a moment with all the things he’s read in the last few days, all the ways they could make this work.

“What about sleeping with other people?” he asks in the end.

“I want to stop doing that for the moment, actually,” Aramis replies, looking at him nervously. “I mean, just for a while. While I work out where I’m going, where we’re going with this.”

“Sure,” Porthos replies, leaning in for a reassuring kiss. “I think it’ll be good for you. And it doesn’t make you any less poly.”

“No, I know, I just want to stop making bad decisions.” Aramis pauses, then blurts out, “I don’t love her, you know.”

It takes Porthos a moment to figure out what the fuck to say to that.

“I didn’t think you did,” he replies eventually.

“I – I just need to say it. I thought I knew her because I see so much of her, because I know where she goes and what she does, who she talks to. I felt like I understood her,” Aramis says wistfully, looking down at their joined hands. “But we’ve never even had a real conversation. I’m just the man with the gun and the earpiece. It was so _stupid._ ”

“Yeah, it was,” Porthos agrees, though not unkindly, cupping Aramis’ jaw with his other hand. “But what’s important is that you recognise that. And that a lot of life is made up of wanting things you can’t have.”

“Sometimes I want to be like Athos, and just not want _any_ of it.”

“Yeah, because being ace is _so_ much easier,” Porthos rolls his eyes. “If you were like Athos, you wouldn’t be you.”

“And I suppose we wouldn’t be doing this,” Aramis grins suddenly, bright and easy. “I don’t want to push you, but what do you think? About keeping going.”

“The rest of the month, then,” Porthos replies, “but I want to try you on a schedule. I think you’ll benefit from knowing what to expect. One orgasm a week, which I give to you. I’ll try and keep it predictable, but I need to be able to move the day if I have to. Otherwise, the same terms.”

In reply, Aramis surges up and into Porthos’ arms, pulling him close for a passionate kiss. “Green,” he replies with a smile, when he pulls back.

“Good,” Porthos replies, hand coming up to grip the back of Aramis’ neck; feeling the buckle of the collar pressing into his palm. “Do you feel like it’s having an effect already? Psychologically, I mean?”

“I…” Aramis hesitates for a moment, but presses on. “Sometimes I feel like there’s too much inside me. Like I want everything at once and I’ll end up with nothing because of it, but I can’t hold back. Does that make any sense?”

“Like you need something to keep you in line,” Porthos replies, nodding. “Keep you focused. I’ve known that for years, love.”

“Of course you have,” Aramis smiles wryly. “But – is there something wrong with me? If I’m better like this?”

Porthos sighs. “Honestly? I’ve got no idea. But are you happier?”

Aramis’ reply is immediate, and adamant. “Yes. Right now, anyway, I really think I am.”

Porthos’ hand comes round to the front of Aramis’ neck, where he slides a finger beneath his collar, and watches the way his face grows slack and trusting, surrendering himself already, beautiful in his submission.

“Then who cares?”


End file.
